


Hell and Back

by Calais_Reno



Series: Many Happy Returns [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, Flexible reasoning, Going to Hell, Happy Ending, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Magic, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea, Thwarting Minions, biscuits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: A man walks into a bookstore and asks for directions to Hell. As it happens, A. Z. Fell knows how to get there.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & John Watson, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Happy Returns [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692
Comments: 22
Kudos: 154
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions





	Hell and Back

“I’m looking for a book.”

Aziraphale turns towards the door of his shop. A man is standing there. A customer. Nothing unusual about that. People do sometimes find their way into his shop, even when he’d rather they didn’t. If he hadn’t been so distracted by the first edition of _Paradise Lost_ he’d just acquired, he might have put up the _Closed_ sign, or made the shop smell of something unpleasant. Mould, perhaps.

But here is his unwitting customer, looking around uncertainly.

The angel puts on his best smile. “Perhaps you were looking for _Intimate Books?_ That’s next door.”

Raising his eyebrows, the man turns his gaze towards Aziraphale. He clears his throat and looks away again. “No, nothing like that. Nothing… intimate. It’s just… it looks like you have a lot of old books.”

The angel nods. “You’ve come to the right place. Most of my books are old, some of them rather _pricey,_ even a few _incunabula,_ so please ask before you touch.” When the man simply blinks and chews his lip, he adds, “Any specific author or title?”

“I read it in school,” he says, looking up at the shelves, which are filled to the ceiling with volumes of all sizes and conditions. “In Latin class. It describes how to get to the underworld.”

“Oh! That would be Vergil’s _Aeneid_ ,” he says. “Though not as memorable as Homer, it does have the advantage of being in Latin. Practically nobody studies Ancient Greek these days, you know. It’s a beautiful language, Greek is, much more nuanced than Latin, but the alphabet is something of a barrier to learning it. And the particles. Tricky.” Smiling, he nods at his customer. “The _Aeneid_ , though— that’s a story beloved by generations of Christians— all that duty and perseverance. Aeneas is a bit tedious as a hero, in my opinion, but Vergil did manage to slip in a prophecy that guaranteed the epic’s survival. It’s in Book Six, as I recall. _Facilis descensus Averno_ , etc. I have several rare editions of the book, quite valuable, but perhaps you’re looking for something more… affordable?”

“I just want directions to the underworld.” The man looks sad, Aziraphale thinks, but very determined.

“Are you a pagan? I don’t mean one of those Neo-pagan types who are always trashing Stonehenge— naked dancing, outdoor procreation, etc. I mean, are you an adherent of Zeus? Hades?”

“Not a pagan.”

“Then… I don’t mean to be overly inquisitive, but why do you need directions to the pagan underworld?”

His customer glances to the side and sniffs. “Looking for a friend of mine.”

“He’s a pagan?”

“He’s an atheist. Killed himself… last week. And I was thinking about going there and bringing him back.”

“Oh, my dear man. I’m so sorry.” The angel puts on a sympathetic face. Death is a difficult thing for mortals; it makes them desperate. He must be gentle with this poor fellow. “You know that’s not actually possible, don’t you? I mean, for one thing, there aren’t many true pagans these days, and the old gods don’t keep up their underworld very well. I’m not even sure they’d let an atheist in.”

The man squares his shoulders and gives a curt nod. “Well, thanks. I suppose I’ll have to go to Hell to find him, then. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let him into Heaven.”

Now the angel wrings his hands. “Oh, dear. You really need to think carefully about this, Mister…?”

“Watson. John Watson.” He holds out his hand.

Aziraphale takes the hand and almost weeps when he feels the sorrow and grief. “Mr Watson, the only certain way to go to… _down there_ … is to commit a mortal sin and die. It wouldn’t be sufficient to use profanity or make an obscene gesture. You’d have to commit murder, or perjury, or… something that causes harm to another person. I just don’t think you’re the kind of person who would do that. It would be a serious mistake.”

“I have killed a man. More than one person. I was in the army.”

The angel pauses. “But these deaths were in the line of duty, to save other lives, were they not?”

“Maybe I could kill myself,” John Watson points out. “That wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

“But it would, don’t you see? It would hurt other people. Your friends and family would grieve. It’s a terrible thing— well, of course you can see that, can’t you?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t any family, except my sister. And my friends don’t really talk to me anymore. They think I should get over his death and move on. It’s awkward, being around me, so they stay away. Killing myself wouldn’t really hurt anybody. I’m sure they won’t even be surprised.”

At the look of absolute despair on Watson’s face, Aziraphale realises the seriousness of the situation, and he knows what will help. At least it will give him time.

“I believe we could both use a cup of tea.” The angel puts the kettle on and motions for Watson to take a seat. “Well, think of this, Mr Watson. Perhaps your friend is not… _down there_. He may be in Heaven. You might be surprised who’s there, actually. In any case, you would not be able to return. You do realise that, don’t you?”

“In myths people do.”

“That’s only because the pagan underworld doesn’t have very good security. A three-headed dog— how’s that going to work? Bring a nice juicy steak and you’ll walk right by him. A extra coin for the ferryman, and Bob’s your uncle. _Downstairs_ security is much more effective these days. Upstairs as well, at least getting in. Not many want to leave once they get there. Though I admit the music is better in the other place. Do you have musical preferences, Mr Watson?”

“I’m not going for the music. I’m going for Sherlock. He’s my friend.” His eyes fill with tears. “He’s… I love him. And I never told him. I thought maybe they’d let me in and I could tell him. I always said I’d go to Hell and back for him. Even if they make me stay, so be it. I just need to know how to get there.”

The kettle boils. He pours water into the pot, considering his reply.

“I’m going to help you, Mr Watson. As it happens, I have a friend who sometimes frequents the lower realm. I’ve been there myself, just once— which was quite enough, I might add. Dreadful place.” He shudders. “I’ll call my friend, though, and he’ll see if Sherlock has checked in. How does that sound?”

John Watson nods. “I appreciate it.”

Aziraphale picks up a rotary dial telephone, circa 1940. In less time than it takes to say _Bob’s your uncle,_ the demon appears.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Crowley,” he says. “Mr Watson here—“

“John, please.”

“John has a friend who has recently died, and he’s looking for him. I thought you could check and see if he’s, you know… _below_ — before he starts down the road to perdition, so to speak.”

“Not a good person, I take it,” says the demon.

“He was a _very_ good person,” John says. “The best man, the most human… human being I’ve ever known. I mean, he wasn’t always polite, but he saved lots of lives.” He sniffs, wipes his hand across his eyes.

Aziraphale whips out a clean handkerchief. “Here, take mine.”

“Thank you.”

Crowley waits until John has blown his nose before continuing. “How many lives did he _take_?”

“Only his own.”

“Ah,” says the demon. “Suicide, then? Technically, Hell is not _de rigueur_ in such cases. If, for example, he gave his life to save other lives, he might be, you know....” He glances upwards.

“True.” Aziraphale nods. “Maybe you could just nip down there and check, Crowley?”

“ _Nip?”_ Crowley sneers. “One doesn’t _nip_ down to Hell. I wouldn’t ask you to _flitter_ up there, would I?”

“Angels don’t _flitter,_ Crowley. I believe you’re thinking of butterflies.” The angel musters every bit of patience he has. That being a virtue, he always keeps a bit on hand, but Crowley has a way of draining it all in a few words. “Just find out whether John’s friend, erm…” He glances at John.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“See if Sherlock Holmes is down there. Saunter, creep, prowl, or stride purposefully. Whatever suits you.”

With a growl, the demon nips off and Aziraphale makes tea for John.

“So that’s your friend,” John says. “A demon. And you’re an angel.”

“We’ve both been down here an awfully long time and have exchanged a few favours over the years. I suppose I’ve become fond of him.”

“He’s a bit of an arsehole.”

“Yes, he is. But it takes all kinds, I always say. And you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or a demon by his… erm, demeanour.”

John smiles. “And would you go to Hell for him?”

“Have done, actually. And he’s been to Heaven for me. Dear Crowley.” He sighs. “If we find your friend in either place, I can’t make any promises, but we’ll see what we can do to extract him.”

The demon pops back into view. “Did you just call me _dear_?”

Aziraphale blushes. “Do tell us what you’ve found, demon. Poor John is waiting.”

“He’s not there, angel. Checked the roster of those recently passed into the beyond, and Sherlock Holmes is not listed.”

“You mean, it hasn’t been decided…?”

“No, I mean he’s not dead.”

John’s mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out.

“John,” says the angel. “What makes you think Sherlock is dead?”

John finds his voice. “I saw him. He fell off of Barts Hospital. Four storeys. Hit the pavement. Blood…”

“Not. Dead.” The demon drops into the seat opposite Aziraphale and helps himself to tea.

“But… I saw.” John shakes his head, dumbfounded. “We buried him. I stood at his grave and I said, _one more miracle, Sherlock. Don’t be dead._ ”

The angel shrugs. “Well, there you have it. A miracle. Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

“Positive.”

“Well, someone was listening.”

“Where is he, then?”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale looks at Crowley. “I don’t suppose you could…?”

“Bloody Hell,” the demon growls. “That’s your bailiwick, angel. Miracle him yourself.”

“I’m on probation,” the angel objects. “Too many miracles this month. I suppose I shouldn’t have done the thing with the bicycle. Or the crepe thing. I’m about miracled out, I’m afraid.”

Crowley rolls his yellow eyes. “I’m only doing this because you’re my friend, Aziraphale.”

He snaps his fingers, more for effect than because it’s actually necessary, and instantly Sherlock Holmes is sitting in the seat opposite John.

“How do you take it?” Aziraphale asks, pouring a cup of tea for the new guest.

The detective looks only mildly surprised. “Two sugars, a splash of milk.”

“Sherlock,” says John. “You’ve had a funeral, which usually means a person is dead. How did you manage—“

He waves a hand dismissively. “Too tedious to explain. I suppose you’re angry, though.”

“Hm, anger.” Crowley nods. “Deadly sin.”

“Not deadlier than letting your best friend think you’re dead,” John replies tetchily. “You might have said.”

“I did it to save you, John. There were three snipers aiming at you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. If I hadn’t jumped, they would have shot you.”

“That was noble.” Aziraphale aims a significant look at the demon. “ _Heavenly_ virtue.”

“He didn’t actually give his _life_ for them, angel. He’s still alive.”

“I’m sure it was painful, nonetheless.” He sips his tea. “Just saying.”

“Do you have any biscuits?” Sherlock asks. “I like the chocolate ones.”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Crowley, would you mind… erm…?”

A plate of biscuits materialises. “Only because I’m feeling generous, angel. And I like chocolate biscuits, too.”

“And now what?” John asks Sherlock. “Are you going to live in Mycroft’s basement until… wait— no!” He sits up straight, his eyes wide. “Oh, god— you’re going after them— Moriarty’s network. You’re planning to take them down. Jesus, Sherlock—“

Sherlock looks embarrassed and a bit annoyed. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

John isn’t done with this particular deadly sin. “You idiot! You were planning to leave me here to mourn, while you run around playing secret agent in… in…”

“The Balkans, mostly.” Sherlock takes a biscuit. “And the Middle East. I’ll probably stop by Tibet, maybe spend a few months in France experimenting with coal-tar derivatives.”

“In other words, having fun.” John frowns, his anger subsiding into annoyance, which is not a deadly sin, merely a misdemeanour. “You should have asked. I would have gone with you.”

“You don’t care anything about coal-tar derivatives, John. You would be bored.”

“And you obviously don’t care anything about me! I was at your bloody funeral, grieving!”

Aziraphale nudges John with his elbow. “You should tell him about your _final destination_.”

“What?” says Sherlock. “Where are you going, John?”

“I thought it was a surprise,” says Crowley, turning the tea into a very nice Chateau Lafitte 1875. “You know, doomed lovers forever…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Doomed. In Hell.”

“Lovers?” Sherlock is looking at John. “Doomed?”

“Never mind,” John says sulkily.

“He was going to the underworld to find you,” says Aziraphale, pouring wine in everyone’s teacups, which have suddenly become wine glasses. “Until we told him you weren’t there, and that you weren’t actually dead. Was that supposed to be a surprise, too?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Sherlock looks chagrined. “The surprise was going to be when I returned.”

“Well, that’s ruined, then,” says the demon. “What now?”

Sherlock sighs. “John, you must understand. Moriarty is dead, but there are his people to worry about. If they know I’m alive, they’ll kill you. I have to root them out and kill them, even if it takes years.” He holds his glass out. Crowley refills it with an opulent red Bordeaux 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild.

“No, Sherlock. I am not about to be _rescued_ by you— not if it means you have to spend the rest of your days rooting and killing all by yourself. I’m not a damsel in distress, you know.”

“I know, John. Moriarty’s people—“

John holds up his hand. “And I’m not someone people notice. Not like you, Mr Conspicuous, with your cheekbones and collar turned up so you look cool. Nobody notices me. When I walk into a room, it feels like somebody has left. Just in case you were thinking they would spot me.”

Aziraphale nods. “Very true. I didn’t notice him for ever so long. No idea how long he’d been standing there, waiting for me to ask him what he was looking for. I just turned and— there he was. He’s quite…”

“Unremarkable?” Crowley suggests.

“I was going to say _inconspicuous,_ ” the angel replies. “In a nice way.”

The demon shrugs. “Unremarkable. Nobody would ever think he’s killed people. Which he has. I’ve seen the results.”

Sherlock is shaking his head. “I’m not risking his life.” He glares at Crowley. “And he’s not _unremarkable._ He’s the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I’ve ever known and I…” His voice drops to a mumble.

“What was that?” Aziraphale leans forward. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock frowns and stares at his empty glass.

The angel beams at John. “He said that he loves you. And seeing as how you love him, too, I’d like to move that this little meeting be adjourned.”

Sherlock and John smile shyly at one another.

“The point is.” Crowley pours himself another glass of wine, emptying the bottle, which then refills itself. “The _point_ is. The point I’m trying to make _is_ — what about all the minions of evil?”

Aziraphale frowns. “What about the minions?”

“I mean,” said the demon, “evil is as evil does, and if it does (which it certainly will do), it’s not going anywhere but straight to Hell, however—“ He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “However. I mean, evil and good, thwarting wiles and all that.”

“Well, why does Sherlock have to do all the thwarting by himself?” Aziraphale asks.

“That’s your area, angel. You’re supposed to be recruiting thwarters, am I right? Course I am. So, recruit some.” He nods at John. “Like this one.”

“If it brings Sherlock home in one piece, I’ll go,” says John. “Just point me towards the minions.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “Too dangerous.”

“You forget who you’re talking to.“ John is angry once more.

“I’m already dead,” the detective replies. “How will we explain your disappearance? People expect to see you mourning me.”

“I just went to your funeral, Sherlock! I was ready to go to Hell for you!”

“Let me do this for you, John,” Sherlock pleads. “If you love me—“

“Oh, stop!” The angel puts on a stern face. “Stop arguing. You can’t both be self-sacrificing. It creates a… a thing. A causal loop. Nobody wins.”

“Doomed lovers,” Crowley reminds him. “Look, I have an idea. You remember that thing, during the war?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Which war? What thing?”

“Doesn’t matter. No winners, whatever they say. Good, evil— when you try to parse it, they don’t always look that different.”

“True.”

“I say, drop a few bombs and let them all blame each other. If we can get them to turn on one another, it’ll sort itself out without involving these two.”

Aziraphale thinks on this for a moment before nodding. “You’re right. That would certainly thwart some wiles, vanquish a few minions.”

Crowley smiles modestly. “It’s a time-honoured method.”

“And what do we do with these two until the thwarting and vanquishing is done?” the angel asks.

Crowley’s gaze meets Aziraphale’s. They smile in unison.

* * * * * * *

Some time later, John wakes to find Sherlock wrapped around him, his nose in John’s ear. It’s oddly comforting.

“Mm. Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“This bed is… heavenly.”

Sherlock’s response is to stick his tongue into John’s ear canal.

John shivers and sighs. “Heavenly. Do you think we’re…”

“Five-star hotel.”

“Oh. That explains the champagne… and everything, I guess.”

“Stop thinking, John. You’re distracting me.”

“If you keep doing that, my brain might just crash.”

“Good.”

Sherlock keeps on doing _that_ for a few moments. Then he props himself up on his elbow and stares down at John. “You were going to Hell.”

“Get back here, you. Course I was. It was for you. Why wouldn’t I go to Hell?”

Sherlock settles down next to him again. “You’re an idiot. People don’t just go to Hell… and come back. Certainly not for the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

“You’re not,” John says. “Yeah, you can be those all things, but you’re _my_ arsehole. And I love you.”

Sherlock blushes. “John.”

“What about you? You’re an idiot, too— throwing yourself off a building! What did you expect me to do? I was ready to jump off a building too, but then I had this idea. You know, like Aeneas, going into the underworld. Or Odysseus. Lots of people’ve done it.” He yawns. “Hercules too.”

“Heracles. Greek, not Roman.”

“You’re going to be pedantic while we’re lying naked in the best bed I’ve ever slept in?”

“I did it for you. Falling, I mean. Not being pedantic.”

“I know. You fell for me.” He giggles. “Just don’t do it again. Where do you suppose we are? I don’t even remember checking in.”

“Switzerland.”

“How did you deduce that? Does it smell like pine? Can you feel the altitude? Did you hear yodelling—“

“There was a brochure on the desk, next to the phone. Local attractions and all that.”

“Oh.”

“There’s quite a lovely waterfall less than an hour’s hike from here. We could follow the path up there, have a look.”

“No. No waterfalls. No high places. No abysses.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Besides, we’ve got this glorious bed, and it would be a shame to leave it here empty.”

“John, I know you. In a little while you’re going to get hungry. And when you’ve had breakfast, you’ll want to explore a bit—“

“I only want to explore you, Sherlock.”

Sighing, Sherlock snuggles into him. “I never thought I could have this. I expected to spend the next two years in awful hotels, infiltrating criminal dens, shooting people. In other words, going to Hell. This is so much better.”

“Yes,” says John. “So much better. I suppose we get to stay here until the minions finish thwarting and vanquishing. I wonder how long that will take.”

“No idea. Now, come over here and explore me some more.”

“That might take a while.”

“I’m counting on it.”

* * * * * * *

In St James’s Park, an angel and a demon are watching the ducks.

“Has anyone noticed?” asks Aziraphale. “I mean, of your people?”

The demon shakes his head. “Nope. Business as usual. Everyone stabbing one another in the back.”

The angel sighs in relief. “I hope we did the right thing.”

Crowley shrugs. “We only made adjustments. Set things right, so they could play out as they should.”

“Well, I’m glad we didn’t have to figure out how to smuggle them out of… wherever they might have ended up. I can’t see how the pagans managed it, people coming and going all the time. Like a revolving door.”

“That’s pagans for you,” the demon replies.

“Well, thank you for your help. I just didn’t want that poor man to throw his life away.”

“That’s humans for you.”

“That’s love for you,” replies the angel. Smiling, he reaches for Crowley’s hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> This series is not complete! I have more ideas, and more will occur to me as I write. Meanwhile, I have several other short stories I'll post over the next month. 
> 
> Right now I'm working on something longer, but fluffy and definitely pre-Reichenbach. Maybe completely Reichenbach-free. I need to be in that Season One Zone for a while.
> 
> I also have a longer story in the wings, a sort of science-fiction/historical AU.


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